I wrote a blog post last week about comments. It was an in-depth exploration of the relationship between content creators and their audience, asking important questions like “Isn’t engagement the point of social media?” and “Does staying away make you seem like a mysterious recluse à la J.D. Salinger, or just Kanye West-cocky?”

You’ll just have to trust that I wrote it, because I didn’t post it. I felt too weird about its navel-gazing vibe. This whole blog is basically one disturbingly long stare into my bellybutton, but that post took self-absorbed introspection to a new level. I started making a lot of drawn-out, groaning noises, like one does when one is in mild distress and feeling dramatic.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Jordan asked when I explained the problem.
“Yeah, but they suck,” I said, and groaned for two minutes straight.
“Well what are they?”
“Uh. I thought about writing one called ‘Fashion Blogging Seems Like Something I Could Do, Right?’, but then I realized it doesn’t.”
“It really doesn’t,” he said kindly. “What if you write about your new cat?”
“Yeah, I thought about writing a Winston Purrchill-themed list, but I don’t really know him yet.”

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